IN the German land of Würtemberg，where the acacias bloom by the high road，and the apple trees and pear trees bend in autumn under their burden of ripe fruit，lies the little town of Marbach．Although this place can only be ranked among the smaller towns，it is charmingly situated on the Neckar stream，that flows on and on，hurrying past villages and old castles and green vineyards，to pour its waters into the proud Rhine．
It was late in autumn．The leaves still clung to the grape-vine，but they were already tinged，with red．Rain showers fell，and the cold wind increased．It was no pleasant time for poor folk．
The days became dark，and it was darker still in the little old-fashioned houses．One of these houses was built with its gable end towards the street，with low windows，humble and poor enough in appearance；the family was poor，too，that inhabited the little house，but good and industrious，and rich in piety，in the treasury of the heart．And they expected that God would soon give them another child：the hour had come，and the mother lay in pain and sorrow．Then from the church tower the deep rich sound of the bell came to her．It was a solemn hour，and the sound of the bell filled the heart of the praying woman with trustfulness and faith；the thought of her in-most heart soared upward towards the Almighty，and in the same hour she gave birth to a son．Then she was filled with a great joy，and the bell in the tower seemed to be ringing to spread the news of her happiness over town and country．The clear child-eyes looked at her and the infant's hair gleamed like gold．Thus was the little one ushered into the world with the ringing of the church bell on the dark November day．The mother and father kissed it，and wrote in their Bible：“ On the 10th of November，1759，God gave us a son；”and soon afterwards the fact was added that the child had been baptized under the name of“Johann Christoph Friedrich”．
And what became of the little fellow，the poor boy from the little town of Marbach？Ah，at that time no one knew what would become not even the old church bell that had sung at his birth，hanging so high in the tower，over him who was one day himself to sing the beautiful “Lay of the Bell”．
Well，the boy grew older，and the world grew older with him．His parents removed to another town，but they had left dear friends in little Marbach；and therefore it was that mother and son one day went there on a visit．The lad was only six years old，but he already knew many things out of the Bible，and many a pious psalm；and many an evening he had sat on his little stool，listening while his father read aloud from“ Gellert's Fables and the poem about the Messiah；and he and his sister，who was his semior by two years，had wept hot tears of pity for Him who died on the cross to redeem us all．
At the time of this first visit to Marbach the little town had not greatly changed；and indeed they had not long left it．The houses stood，as before，with their pointed gables，projecting walls，and low windows；but there were new graves in the churchyard；and there，in the grass，hard by the wall，lay the old bell．It had fallen from its position，and had received a crack and could ring no more，and accordingly a new bell had been put in its place．
Mother and son went into the churchyard．They stopped where the old bell lay，and the mother told the boy how for centuries this had been a very useful bell，and had rung at christenings，st weddings，and at burials；how it had spoken about feasts and rejoicings，and alarms of fire；and how it had，in fact，sung the Whole life of man．And the boy never forgot what his mother told him．It echoed in his heart，until，when he was grown a man，he was compelled to sing it．The mother told him also how the bell had rung of joy and comfort to her in the time of her peril，that it had rung and sung at the time when he，her little son，was born．And the boy gazed，almost with a feeling of devotion，at the great old bell；and he bent over it and kissed it，as it lay all rusty and broken among the long grass and nettles．
The old bell was held in remembrance by the boy，who grew up in poverty，tall and thin，with reddish hair and freckled face；—yes，that's how he looked；but he had a pair of eyes，clear and deep as the deepest water．And what fortune had he？Why，good fortune，enviable fortune．We find him graciously received into the military school，and even in the department where sons of people in society were taught，and that was honor and fortune．He went about with boots，a stiff collar，and a powdered wig，and they educated him to the words of command，“Halt！March！Front！”and on such a system much might be expected．
The old church bell would no doubt find its way into the melting furnace，and what would become of it then？It was impossible to say，and equally impossible to tell what would come from the bell within that young beart；but that bell was of bronze，and kept sounding so loud that it must at last be heard out in the wide world；and the more cramped the space within the school walls，and the more deafening the shout of“March！Halt！Front！”the louder did the sound ring through the youth's breast；and he sang it in the circle of his companions，and the sound was heard beyond the boundaries of the land．But it was not for this he had got his schooling，board，and clothing．Had he not been already numbered and destined to be a certain wheel in the great watchwork to Which we all be-long as pieces of practical machinery？How imperfectly do we understand ourselves！And how，then，shall others，even the best men，understand us？But it is the pressure that forms the precious stone．There was pressure enough here；but would the world be able，some day，to recognize the jewel？
In the capital of the prince of the country，a great festival was being celebrated．Thousands of lamps gleamed and rockets glittered．The splendor of that day yet lives throug him，who was trying in sorrow and tears to escape unperceived from the land：he was compelled to leave all—mother，native country，those he loved—for perish in the stream of commonplace things．
The old bell was well off；it stood sheltered beside the church-wall of Marbach．The wind whistled over it，and might have told about him at whose birth the bell had sounded，and over whom the wind had but now blown cold in the forest of a neighboring land，where he had sunk down，exhausted by fatigue，with his whole wealth，his only hope for the future，the written pages of his tragedy “Fiesco”：the wind might have told of the youth's only patrons，men who were artists，and who yet slunk away to amuse themselves at skittles While his play was being read：the wind could have told of the pale fugitive，who lived for weary weeks and months in the wretched tavern，where the host brawled and drank，and coarse merriment was going on while he sang of the ideal．Heavy days，dark days！The heart must suffer and endure for it-self the trials it is to sing．
Dark days and cold nights also passed over the old bell，It did not feel them，but the bell within the heart of man is affected by gloomy times．How fared it with the young man？How fared it with the old bell？The bell was carried far away，farther than its sound could have been heard from the lofty tower in which it had once hung．And the youth？The bell in his heart sounded farther than his eye should ever see or his foot should ever wander；it sounded and is sounding on，over the ocean，round the whole earth·But let us first speak of the belfry bell．It was carried away from Marbach，was sold for old metal，and destined for the melting furnace in Bavaria．But when and how did this happen？Well，the bell itself must tell about that，if it can；it is not a matter of great importance，but certain it is that it came to the capital of Bavaria；many years had passed since the bell had fallen from the tower，and now it was to be melted down，to be used in the manufacture of a memorial in honor of one of the great ones of the German people and land．And be-hold how suitable this was—how strangely and wonderful-ly things happen in the world！
In Denmark，on one of those green islands where the beech tree grows，and the many grave-mounds are to be seen，there was quite a poor boy．He had been accustomed to walk about in wooden shoes，and to carry a dinner wrapped in an old handkerchief to his father，who carved figure-heads on the shipbuilders’wharves；but this poor lad had become the pride of his country．He carved marble blocks into such glorious shapes as made the whole world wonder，and to him had been awarded the honor-able commission that he should fashion of clay a noble form that was to be cast in bronze—a statue of him whose name the father in Marbach had inscribed in the old Bible as Johann Christoph Friedrich．
And the glowing metal flowed into the mould．The old church bell—of whose home and of whose vanished sounds no one thought—the bell flowed into the mould，and formed the head and bust of the figure that was soon to be unveiled，which now stands in Stuttgart，before the old palace—a representation of him who once walked to and fro there，striving and suffering，harassed by the world without—he，the boy of Marbach，the pupil of the “Karlschule”，the fugitive，Germany's great immortal poet，who sang of the liberator of Switzerland and of the Heaven-inspired Maid of Orleans．
It was a beautiful sunny day；flags were waving from roofs and steeples in the royal city of Stuttgart；the bells rang for joy and festivity；one bell alone was silent，but it gleamed in another form in the bright sunshine—it gleamed from the head and breast of the statue of honor．On that clay，exactly one hundred years had elapsed since the clay on which the bell at Marbach had rung comfort and peace to the suffering mother，when she bore her son，in poverty，in the humble cottage—him who was afterwards to become the rich man，whose treasures enriched the world，the poet who sang of the noble virtues of woman，who sang of all that was great and glorious—Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller．
古教堂的钟
——为席勒纪念册而作
在德国瓦尔登堡地方，槐树在大路旁边开满了美丽的花朵，苹果树和梨树在秋天被成熟的果实压弯了枝条。这儿有一个小城市：玛尔巴赫。它是那些微不足道的城市之一，但它是在涅加尔河边，处在一个美丽的位置上。这条河匆忙地流过许多村庄、古老的骑士宫堡和青翠的葡萄园，为的是要把它的水倾泻到莱茵河里去。
这正是岁暮的时候。葡萄的叶子已经红了，天上在下着阵雨，寒风在吹。对于穷人说来，这并不是一个愉快的时节。日子一天比一天变得阴暗，而那些老式的房子内部更显得阴暗。街上就有这样的一幢房子；它的山形墙面向前街，它的窗子很矮，它的外表很寒酸。它里面住的一家人的确也很贫寒，但是非常正直和勤俭；在他们心的深处，他们怀着对于上帝的敬爱。
上帝很快就要送一个孩子给他们。时候已经要到了。母亲躺在床上，感到阵痛和难过。这时她听到教堂塔上飘来的钟声——洪亮而快乐的钟声。这是一个庄严的时刻。钟声充满了这个祈祷着的女人的虔诚的心。她内心的思想飞向上帝。正在这时候，她生了一个男孩；她感到无限地快乐。教堂塔上的钟声似乎在把她的快乐向全市，向全国播送。两颗明亮的眼睛在向她凝望。这个小家伙的头发发着亮光，好像是镀了金似的。在11月的一个阴暗的日子里，这个孩子就在钟声中被送到世界上来了。妈妈和爸爸吻了他，同时在他们的《圣经》上写道：“ 1759年11月10日，上帝送给我们一个男孩。”后来他加了一句，说孩子在受洗礼时起名为约翰·克利斯朵夫·佛里得利西。
这个小家伙，寒酸的玛尔巴赫城里的一个穷孩子，成了怎样的一个人呢？的确，在那个时候谁也不知道，甚至那个老教堂的钟也不知道，虽然它悬得那样高，最先为他唱着歌——后来他自己也唱出一支非常美丽的歌：《钟》。
这个小家伙在生长，这个世界也为他在生长。他的父母搬到另一个城里去了，但是他们在小小的玛尔巴赫还留下一些亲爱的朋友。因此有一天妈妈就带着儿子回去作一次拜访。孩子还只不过六周岁，但是他已经知道了《圣经》里的许多章节和虔敬的赞美诗。他常常在晚间坐在小凳上听爸爸念格勒尔特的寓言和关于救世主的诗，当他们听到这个人为了救我们而上十字架的时候，他流出眼泪，比他大两岁的姐姐就哭起来。
在他们第一次拜访玛尔巴赫的时候，这个城市还没有很大的改变。的确，他们离开它还没有多久。房子仍然跟以前一样，有尖尖的山墙，凸出的墙壁和低矮的窗子；但是教堂的墓地里却有了新的坟墓，而且那个老钟也躺在这儿墙边的草里。这钟是从塔上落下来的。它已经跌出一个裂口，再也发不出声音来了。因为这个缘故，现在有一个新钟来代替它。
妈妈和儿子一起走到教堂里去。他们站在这个老钟面前。妈妈告诉孩子，许多世纪以来这个钟该是做了多少事情：它在人们受洗、结婚和入葬的时候，奏出音乐；它为庆祝、欢乐和火警发出声音；事实上，这个钟歌唱着人的整个一生。妈妈讲的话，这孩子永远没有忘记。这些话在他的心里盘旋着，直到后来他成人以后不得不把它唱出来。妈妈还告诉他，这钟怎样在她苦痛不安的时候发出安慰和快乐的声音，怎样在她生小孩子的时候奏出音乐和歌。孩子怀着虔诚的心情望着这个伟大的、古老的钟。他弯下腰来吻它，虽然它躺在乱草和荨麻之间，裂了口，满身是锈。
孩子在贫困中长大了，这个钟深深地留在他的记忆里。他是又瘦又高，长了一头红发，满脸雀斑。是的，这就是他的外貌，但是他有两颗明亮的、像深水一样的眼睛。他的发展怎样呢？他的发展很好，好得叫人羡慕！他进了军官学校，而且受到优待，进了世家子弟所进的那一科。这是一种光荣和幸运。他穿起皮靴和硬领，戴着扑了粉的假发。他在学习知识——“开步走！”“立正！”和“向前看！”这个范畴里的知识。这大概不会是白学的。
那个被人忘记了的老教堂的钟总有一天会走进熔炉。它会变成什么呢？这是很难说的。但是那个年轻人心里的钟会变成什么呢？这也同样是很难说的。他心里有一个声音洪亮的铜钟——它总有一天要向世界唱出歌来。学校的空间越狭窄，“开步走！立正！向前走！”的声音越紧张，这个年轻人心里的歌声就越强壮。他在同学中间把这个歌声唱出来，而这歌声越过了国境。但他在这儿受教育、领制服和食宿并不就是为了唱歌呀。他是一座大钟里的一个固定的螺丝钉——我们都是一架机器的零件。我们对于自己了解得多么少啊！别的人——即使是最好的人——怎么会了解我们呢？但是宝石只有在压力下才能形成。这儿现在有的是压力。世界在时间的过程中会不会认识这颗宝石呢？
有一个盛大的庆祝会在这国家的首都举行。无数的灯光亮起来了，焰火照耀着天空。他现在还记得起那次辉煌的景象，因为正是在那个时候他带着眼泪和苦痛的心情想要逃到外国去；他不得不离开祖国、母亲和所有亲爱的人，否则他就得在一个平凡的生活漩涡中淹没掉。
那个老钟仍然是完好如故。它藏在玛尔巴赫的教堂墙边，[完全被人忘记了！]风在它身上吹过去，可能告诉它一点关于他的消息，因为这钟在他出生的时候曾经唱过歌。风可能告诉它自己怎样寒冷地在他身上吹过去，他怎样因为疲劳过度而在邻近的森林里倒下来，他怎样拥抱着他的宝物——他对未来的希望：已经完成的那几页悲剧《菲爱斯柯》。风可能说出：当他在读这部悲剧的时候，他的支持者——全是些艺术家——都偷偷地溜走而去玩九柱戏。风可能说出：这个面色苍白的逃亡者整星期、整月地住在一个寒酸的客栈里，老板不是吵闹就是喝酒；当他正在唱着理想之歌的时候，人们却在周围粗暴地作乐。这是艰难的日子，阴暗的日子！心儿得为它所要唱出的东西先受一番苦和考验。
那个古老的钟也经历过阴暗的日子和寒冷的夜，但是它感觉不到，人类胸怀中的钟可是能感觉得到困苦的时刻。这个年轻人的情形怎样呢？那口老钟的情形怎样呢？是的，这个钟传得很远，比它在高塔上发出的声音所能达到的地方还远。至于这个年轻人，他心里的钟声所达到的地方，比他的脚步所能走到和他的眼睛所能看到的地方还要远。它在大洋上、在整个的地球上响着。现在让我们先听听这个教堂的钟吧。它从玛尔巴赫被运走了。它被当作旧铜卖了。它得走到巴恩州的熔炉里去。它究竟是怎样到那里去的呢？什么时候去的呢？晤，这只好让钟自己来讲——如果它能讲的话。这当然不是一件顶重要的事情。不过有一件事是很肯定的：它来到了巴恩的首府。自从它从钟楼上跌下来的时候起，有许多年已经过去了。它现在得被熔化，作为一座新铸的纪念碑的材料的一部分——德国人民的一个伟大的雕像。现在请听这事情是怎样发生的吧！这个世界上有的是奇异和美妙的事情！
在丹麦一个布满了山毛榉树和坟墓的绿岛上住着一个穷苦的孩子。他拖着一双木鞋，常常用一块旧布包着饭食送给他的父亲吃。父亲在码头上专门为船只雕刻“破浪神”。这个穷苦的孩子成了这个国家的骄傲：他从大理石刻出的美丽东西，使全世界的人看到都非常惊异。
现在他接受了一件光荣的工作：用泥土雕塑出一个庄严美丽的人像，然后再从这个人像铸出一个铜像。这个人像的名字就是他的父亲曾经在《圣经》上写过的：约翰·克利斯朵夫·佛里得利西。
火热的古铜流进模子里去。是的，谁也没有想起那个古教堂的钟的故家和它的逝去了的声音。这钟流进模子里去，形成一个人像的头和胸部。这尊像现在已经揭幕了。它现在已经立在斯杜特加尔特的古宫面前。它所代表的那个人，活着的时候，曾经在这块地方走来走去；
他感到外界的压迫，他的内心在做尖锐的斗争。
他——玛尔巴赫出生的一个孩子，军事学校的一个学生，逃亡者，德国不朽的伟大诗人——他歌唱瑞士的解放者和法国的一位得到上天感召的姑娘。
这是一个美丽的晴天。在这个庄严的斯杜特加尔特城里，旗帜在屋顶上和尖塔上飘扬，教堂所有的钟都发出节日和欢乐的声音。只有一个钟是沉默的。但是它在明朗的太阳光中射出光辉，它从一尊高贵的人像的面上和胸前射出光辉。自从玛尔巴赫塔上的钟为一个受难的母亲发出快乐和安慰的钟声那天起，整整一个世纪已经过去了。那一天，这个母亲在穷困中和简陋的房子中生出了一个男孩。这孩子后来成为一个富有的人——他的精神财富给世界带来幸福。他——一个善良的女人所生的诗人，一个伟大的、光荣的歌手：约翰·克利斯朵夫·佛里得利西·席勒。
这是歌颂德国著名诗人和剧作家席勒（J·C·F Von Schiller， 1759—1805）的一篇散文诗，发表在 1862 年哥本哈根出版的《丹麦大众历书》上。安徒生在他的手记中写道：“《古教堂的钟》是我受到请求而写的，以配合《席勒画册》中的一幅画。我想加一点丹麦的成份进去。读者读了这个故事后就知道，我是怎样解决这个问题的。”所谓“一点丹麦的成份”大概是指安徒生本人的经历。他也是在穷困中成长的，“后来成为一个富有的人——他的精神财富给世界带来幸福。他——一个善良的女人所生的诗人，一个伟大的光荣的歌手……”